


Ghost Train

by yaycoffee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: America is big, August and Everything After, Friendship, Gen, Heading home, Irene is a wise lady, Lonliness, M/M, Pining, Post Reichenbach, Songfic, The work is done, Trains, counting crows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two (not quite) dead people have a conversation on the long journey home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Train

**Author's Note:**

> This is a songfic written for the [Let's Write Sherlock Tumblr's Third Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/56048461490/the-results-are-in-and-for-challenge-3-your-prompt), drawing inspiration from "[Ghost Train](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MieD0guDbI0)" by Counting Crows (words and music written by Adam Duritz) from the album _August and Everything After_. A few of the words and lines in this story are directly quoted from the song. I give full credit to Mr. Duritz for them. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much to both Fiona_Fawkes and Stellabelle, my wonderful betas, who kindly looked over this story and gave me some great advice and encouragement. Any remaining mistakes are my fault entirely.

The train climbs along a ladder that runs parallel to the horizon, moving east.  Outside, the world is nothing but a blur of rust-red earth, dotted with spiny cacti and occasional ground-level clouds of wind-swept dust.  The yawning, desolate beauty of the desert stretches endlessly both before and behind him as he moves without stirring.  The landscape remains the same, even if his thoughts stubbornly refuse to settle. One breath in, and he removes his steepled fingers from the bow of his lip, focus shifting to watch the world properly for a moment.  He still has a very long way to go. 

His reflection in the window glass is transparent, an outline, showing hair that is just long enough to start curling at the ends; he runs his fingers from nape to crown.  The ache in his body reminds him that it has been hours since he last moved, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, twists at the waist--first toward the window and then toward the aisle before settling back again.  He crosses his Conversed feet in the chair opposite, and eyes closed, he tips his head down to his shoulder until he feels the pop of vertebrae in his neck.  The relief it brings is greater than he’d imagined.  He has become used to being uncomfortable.

By the time the train stops in Flagstaff, the landscape has finally caught up with time.  America is too big, he thinks, but the desert is behind him now.  He stands and stretches as the announcement tells him he’ll have twenty minutes, so he exits the train for the station.  He pauses for a moment when he is outside, feeling the solidity of the platform beneath his feet as he gulps in cold mountain air, snow on his tongue after the too long stretch of desert. 

Inside, he finds the toilets and a small gift shop.  Out of habit, he checks over his shoulder (automatic behaviour, unnecessary now) as he peruses the shot glasses and postcards.  He lifts one, _Greetings from Flagstaff_ , garishly bright.  Hideous, in fact.  He leaves in its place before paying at the till for a cup of burnt coffee and a limp turkey sandwich. 

He is back in his seat with barely a minute to spare before the train jerks into motion again.  The car isn’t full by far, but there are more people now than there were before, refreshed and chatty after the brief respite.  It is harder to think in the noise, so he stops trying.  Instead, he lets his eyes trace the chipped-tooth edges of the mountaintops as they pass, growing taller with each mile.  It is easy (easier than he expected) to let his mind fall quiet as he surrenders nearly entirely to the strange calm they inspire.

From behind him, he hears the rustle of fabric as a woman makes her way up the aisle.  The train sways deeply just as she passes.  Her hip bumps his shoulder, knocking him hard enough that a drop of lukewarm coffee escapes from his lidded cup.  Her hand reaches for the headrest beside his ear as she steadies herself.  He glances up to see the back of a bottle blonde, thin, in a baggy grey jumper over slim jeans, exposed cowboy boots. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, tone high and nasal, the beginning of an insipid burst of embarrassed laughter.  Even though her face is turned away, he draws in his lips and tips his head silently, acknowledging her apology without inviting further conversation.  He turns away, back to the window, but she doesn’t leave. 

She says, “Hey,” and he looks up to meet her face, a curt dismissal ready on the tip of his tongue.  The words die in his throat when he meets her eyes.  “How do you do,” she says, American accent betrayed by the oddness of her cadence rather than the pronunciation of the words. 

The Woman.  He feels the corner of his mouth turn upwards as she takes the seat opposite.

Without saying a word, he holds out his hand, palm up.  She smirks and hesitates for a beat, but complies, pulling a camera-phone from her handbag and placing it in his hand.  He will take no chances.

“And the other one,” he says, inclining his head toward the barely-there bulge at her left breast. “The one you’ve got under your jumper.”  His voice is slightly rough from disuse, though recovering quickly.

She makes a show of teasing, pulling down her collar to reveal the lacy edge of her bra as she slides her thumb and forefinger in to retrieve it.  He makes a point to _look_ before meeting her eyes again, and then it is his turn to smirk.  He ensures both phones are off (battery removed, lenses face down into the seat, microphones shoved tightly between the seat bottom and his thigh). 

“Mr Holmes,” she says quietly in her natural accent.  He startles a bit; he hasn’t had a name in years.  He detests that she is the first to use it (that honour belongs to another).  “Imagine meeting you here.”

“Imagine,” Sherlock replies.  He tilts his head slightly to one side, eyes narrowing.  “Blonde doesn’t really suit you,” he tells her with a flip of his first two fingers in the general direction of her head.

“Are you wearing trainers?”  Touché.  He rewards her with a slight nod.  She settles deeper into her seat, crossing her legs.  “I read that you died.”  Her fingers interlace (nails clean, unvarnished), resting lightly over a knee.

“Funny,” he says.  “I read the same about you.” 

They sit together, both quietly watching the mountains roll by as the train continues climbing.

“Am I the only one who knows?” she eventually asks.

“No.”  The sun is beginning to set.

“But _he_ doesn’t, does he?”

Sherlock turns to look at her.  “No.”

The smile she returns is a sad one, eyes turning down at their corners.  “Will he?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and he sees his own smile in the reflection of the glass to his left.  He hadn’t meant to do that.  They fall back into an easy silence for a few minutes.

“It can’t be easy,” The Woman says lightly, cautiously.  “Resurrection.”

Sherlock hums, lifts his eyebrows.  “It might even be more difficult than dying,” he says.  “Not nearly as common.  And with more paperwork.”

“Quite,” she says.  “Oh, but you’ve never been _common_.”

“No,” he admits.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“East.”

“From sea to shining sea?” she drones in her odd American accent again.

“Home,” he adds.

“Hey.”  She leans forward, placing a hand on his knee.  She’s not teasing now, and he does not flinch at the touch.  “How _do_ you do?”

His answering chuckle is dry and humourless and evaporates almost instantly.  He sighs.  “I’ve been away much longer than I’d planned.”

“Do you have a story to tell me?”  Her dark eyes are searching his.

“Everyone has a story to tell.”

The Woman leans back again in her seat.  The place where her hand had been remains warm even after she’s removed it.  “Darling,” she says, swaying with the train.  “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

He studies her face, catalogues the milimetres’ differences in the lines around her eyes and mouth.  She is beautiful in a way that the rest of the world will never see.  Most focus on precisely the wrong things.  She doesn’t, though.  Her focus is crystalline, sharp (and that is the beauty everyone misses).

“He’ll be glad to have you back,” she says.

“He will punch me in the face,” Sherlock says.  He frowns.  “It’s been far too long.”  He notices that the windows have gone completely dark now.

She leans forward to run her thumb across a spot high on his left cheek.  “He’s done that before,” she reminds him, withdrawing her hand quickly.  “It’s the part that comes after that matters.”

“I know.”

“And so will he,” she says.  “Know.”

He turns to her more fully, his question etched deeply in the line of his brow (Will he?).  The answer might be even more frightening than the question.

“Oh,” she says.  “He already knows that.  You’ve been apart for too long.  _Remember_.”

It hurts to remember.  He has done little else.

“Remember _everything_ ,” she says. 

“Only memory remains,” Sherlock murmurs; he hadn’t intended to say it out loud. 

She shifts in her seat, switching her crossed legs.  "You’ll be home sooner than you know,” she assures him.

He swallows once, takes a deep breath.  He can’t see outside at all anymore; the dark window shows only the dim reflection of himself, eyes too dark in their sockets.  He can’t look at it any longer, so he turns from it, reaching into the white plastic sack from the gift shop in Flagstaff.  He retrieves the pathetic sandwich, holding out one half in offering. 

“Dinner?” he asks The Woman, finding the energy for one more smirk.

She takes it from him.  “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”  She is smiling.  “I thought you’d never ask.”

\--End--


End file.
